


First Time For Everything

by Snapjack



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, F/M, Post-Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snapjack/pseuds/Snapjack
Summary: He gets his shirt off, and hers too, with a declaration so thin that he wants to punch himself right in the throat for saying it. "It's really hot in here." Ghastly. What good is being Jaime Lannister if you can't think of anything to bloody *say* to the woman you're trying to bed?





	First Time For Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for the folks at Through The Looking Glass. Thank you all.

He gets his shirt off, and hers too, with a declaration so thin that he wants to punch himself right in the throat for saying it. "It's really hot in here."  _Ghastly_. What good is being Jaime Lannister if you can't think of anything to bloody  _say_ to the woman you're trying to bed? He wants to swallow his own tongue. Brienne isn't any help either, the way she stares. Like she's examining a mote of dust floating somewhere in the depths of his empty head. Like she's weighing the exact mass and density of his conscience. He has to stop her staring, and so he kisses her, fiercely and with exactly the same gruesome lack of tact he's brought to bear on this whole encounter. He kisses her, half-expecting Brienne to push him away, punch him in the eye; when she kisses back, it nearly knocks him over anyway. He doesn't know where she gets the strength: less than a day ago, they were fighting off a tidal wave of corpses. His bruises still have bruises. But she kisses him until she’s gasping for breath, and then she kisses him some more, and that’s when he realizes, _oh._ _This is hunger._ He feels daft for not having seen it before in her thousand-yard stare, for not having deduced it from her abject misery. Brienne is starving, for touch, for contact, and Jaime may not know what do to with a woman who looks at him like he hung the moon, but he sure as hell knows what to do with a woman who wants to be touched. He wraps his one good arm around Brienne and topples them both over onto the bed, ignoring her startled yelp and crawling over her on his elbows and knees. He threads his left hand through her thick hair and tilts her head back, looking her right in the eyes. She looks frightened, so he grips her hair a little tighter.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she says defensively, which won’t do. Just like that, it comes to him—the way to parry her thrust.

“Why not?” he whispers against her lips. “I’m _terrified_.”

 

 

Brienne, when she melts, goes like a glacier. It’s not a gentle process. First there’s a warning crack, and then a whole white slab of mountain is rocketing towards you, and you have to get out of the way or be swept up in it, possibly to die. Jaime’s never been so gripped in his life. Brienne’s white thighs are clasping him, her fingers are pressing deep red grooves into his back, and she’s gasping into his mouth, their foreheads together. It’s hot as hell in the room, they’ve been rocking against each other for ages, and the sweat is stinging his skin and eyes and lips. The thing is, he doesn’t want to pull away—quite the contrary. He can’t get close enough, and he tells her so, or thinks he does. He’s been past words for some time now. So he tries to tell her with his mouth, with his hips, with his cock; with his one good hand. He tries to tell her for a truly shocking amount of time, really, and when he’s finally spent he rolls her over on top of him and makes sure she finishes, too.

 

 

She collapses next to him, breathing like a sailor washed up on sand. Her skin is slick, golden in the firelight. He rolls onto his right side, tracing a line from her shoulder to her hip with his fingertips, propping up his own head with the stump of his left. “Do you know,” he says, trying for a conversational lightness he doesn’t really feel, “I don’t think I’ve stayed up this late fucking since I was seventeen.”

Brienne’s forehead creases, and he curses himself for taking the conversation where she can’t, by definition, follow. Words have never failed him in bed before, but clearly this is a night of firsts. “Come here,” he says, nudging Brienne until he’s rearranged her into some semblance of a cuddle, tucking her head under his chin and running his fingertips down her back in a soothing way. He desperately wants to ask her if she’s contented, if she’s pleased, if sex has lived up to her expectations—but no matter how he phrases it in his head, he can hear a pathetic, wheedling whine in it, a thread of weakness that he despises. He’s almost absurdly grateful when she says, unbidden and unprompted, “I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like giving myself away, only to get so much more of myself in return.”

He presses a kiss to the back of her neck. Then, because he wants to and because he feels like he’s falling apart, another. He kisses her so long that she rolls over in his arms and kisses him back, and they fall asleep with breaths mingling and legs all tangled, two halves of the same thing.

 

 

Of course, he goes and finds a way to fuck it up the next morning. But it’s nice while it lasts.  

**Author's Note:**

> All my fics are beta'd by the peerless JenTheSweetie. If you like my stuff, go check hers out. It's what my stuff wants to be when it grows up.


End file.
